Читать книгу Hilda's Mascot: A Tale of "Maryland, My Maryland" - Mary E. Ireland - Страница 4

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One evening many years ago a man, accompanied by a girl and a boy, was passing slowly along one of the streets of Baltimore that led to an orphan asylum.

He was above medium height, and although past thirty, was youthful, almost boyish in appearance, with his fair complexion, blonde hair and slight moustache; a handsome man save for the pallor and attenuation of his clear-cut features and the look of hopeless grief in his fine eyes.

His left hand, white and shapely, held that of the little boy who was chatting merrily, and in his right was a package—of which, though bulky, he appeared as oblivious as though his hand were empty.

Beside him walked the girl, whose watchful interest in the package betokened ownership, though intrusted for a time to another’s care, but for the safety of which she was responsible.

She had the clear olive complexion, black hair and the brilliant black eyes of the boy, but unlike him, was thin and almost as pallid as the man. But there was no lassitude in her movements; instead they were full of energy, and her meagre face, while intelligent and attractive, lacked repose and the promise of patient endurance of life’s trials and disappointments.

“We never were on this street before,” she commented, after walking several squares in silence. “Where are we going; tell me?”

There was no response, and she continued, “Does mamma know that you are taking Horace and me away from her? Why don’t you talk?”

A sigh, almost a groan, escaped the lips of the man, and he whispered some words which the children did not understand.

An angry flush arose to the girl’s face, and her eyes sparkled with the tears that filled them.

“I won’t go one step further unless you tell me where we are going,” she said, halting and stamping her foot impatiently.

The man seemed to rouse from his abstraction with effort, and in a voice scarcely audible to the eager listener, replied, “We are going where you will see many children, where you will have enough to eat, a comfortable bed and good clothes; you will have a much better home than the one you are leaving.”

“But I have good clothes now and pretty ones,” and she looked with an air of satisfaction upon the package. “Will mamma come?”

The man trembled with suppressed emotion, which was noticed by the boy, who looked up into his face and waited for the answer.

“Your mother will be given a home where she will suffer no more sorrow nor distress of body or mind,” he answered, and again relapsed into silence until they reached the asylum, were admitted and stood in the presence of the matron.

“Have you brought these children for admission?” she asked.

The man nodded; he could not summon voice to speak.

“Where is your permit?”

For answer he turned as quickly as his weakness would allow, placed the package upon a chair and left the building.

“Well, this is a strange proceeding, I must say,” commented the matron, looking from the window at the retreating figure passing down the walk with uncertain steps. “Is that man your father?”

Something in the tone and manner aroused the quick temper of the girl and she refused to answer, and silenced the boy by a look when appeal was made to him.

“What is your name?” continued the matron, turning again to her.

“Jerusha Flint.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten last June.”

“Is the boy your brother?”

“Yes.”

“What is his name and age?”

“Horace Flint, and six years.”

“Where is your mother?” was next asked.

“At home, sick.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Nobody; we came to have a good home and plenty to eat. I have pretty clothes in there; I helped mamma make them,” and she nodded complacently toward the package on the chair.

“You helped indeed,” smiled the matron, glancing down at the diminutive creature before her.

“I did help! I can sew!” cried Jerusha, trembling with anger and weakness; “mamma taught me, and says I sew well for a child. See, here is my thimble,” and she took it from her pocket and placed it upon her thin finger.

“Yes, for a child; we do not expect much from a girl of ten. Let me see your clothes.”

This request brought a gratified smile to the grave lips of the little girl; she untied the package with deft fingers and took from it a pink cashmere gown, soft and fine in texture, made in the latest style and with artistic skill.

“Who gave you this lovely dress, child?”

“Mamma, I told you. We made it out of one she wore at boarding-school, and this, and this,” and she took up one of dark blue cashmere, and one of crimson, both of the finest grade.

“But, child, these beautiful dresses will be of no use here.”

“They will be of use,” cried Jerusha excitedly. “I heard mamma say that if my grandfather would take me to his home I would wear pretty clothes like these every day.”

“But you are not at your grandfather’s; you are in an orphan asylum, and must wear that uniform.”

“What is an asylum, and what is a uniform?” was asked wonderingly.

“Come to the school-room and I will show you,” and leading the way, she opened the door into a large room where a number of children were studying their lessons for the next day.

“Now you see the way the girls dress here, and you will dress the same if you stay.”

“But I will not dress that way, and I will wear my pretty dresses or I will not stay.”

“We will see first whether you can stay,” commented the matron coldly. “In the meantime you will remain in this room and listen to the children during the half hour they study, then you can go with them to the playground,” and she signalled to one of the teachers to give the newcomer a place.

That place was beside Diana Strong, an orphan a few years older than Jerusha, and tall for her age. She had flaxen hair, pale blue eyes, a sallow complexion and a long upper lip, which, however, did not conceal the large front teeth. But withal, there was an expression in her plain face of such genuine kindness and sympathy for everybody and everything that all felt comfortable in her presence.

The matron had in the meantime returned to the reception-room and conducted Horace to the boys’ department of the institution where, in a short time, he was as much at home as if he had known no other.

Investigations made the next day by the managers gave, after strict research, confirmation that Jerusha Flint and her brother were really objects of charity. The mother had died a few days after the little family of four had taken possession of a miserable home, the children had been taken away by someone, and the place was tenantless. That was all the neighbors knew of the matter, so nothing was left to do, even if otherwise desired, but to keep them in the asylum.

A few evenings after this conclusion was reached, the matron, in her quiet, comfortable room, was about to enjoy her evening meal after the labors of the day.

The children of all ages and sizes were in their white-robed beds after their simple supper of bread and milk, and were sleeping perhaps more sweetly than if in more luxurious homes.

A tap upon the door was followed by the entrance of an old friend, a trained nurse from one of the city hospitals, who was cordially invited to break bread with the hostess.

“I will,” she assented, “but first I must tell you of this,” and she took from its wrappings an ebony box of curious workmanship, inlaid with pearl, beautiful in design and finish.

“Where did you get it?” asked the matron, taking it in her hand.

“It was put in my care by a patient at the hospital who said he had brought a girl here named Jerusha Flint, and her brother Horace. He asked me to bring it to you to keep safely and give it to Jerusha when she is sixteen. He said she had often been shown by her mother how to open it, and would remember how it is done; you see it has no key.”

“Did he say that he is the father of these children?”

“No. I have told you all that he said; for he became delirious, and although he talked to himself in a low tone or a whisper, there was nothing connected enough to let us know who he is. All I can say is that with his blonde hair, deep blue eyes and tinge of color in his face, now that he has fever, he is as handsome as a picture.”

“I wonder how long he will remain in the hospital?”

“Until he is carried out, if I am not greatly mistaken. He has brain fever, his system is completely run down and the doctors say that he has suffered a severe nervous shock. There is no hope whatever of his recovery.”

“Has he no friends, I wonder?”

“No one has called to see him. The doctor found a letter in his pocket, addressed and sealed, but not stamped. He asked me to write to the gentleman whose name and address was upon it, and inform him that a man who had taken two children named Flint to an orphan asylum was lying at the hospital dangerously ill. I did so, enclosing the letter, but there was no reply to either.”

“In his delirious talk does he say nothing of his past life?”

“Yes, he rambles on about an elopement, and of disobedience to parents, and of the regret and misery which was its punishment, and of his bringing someone to poverty, and of a long, weary walk, and of a terrible fright, and of a key, which is, I suppose the one we found in his pocket; but he whispers most of the time, and we cannot understand him.”

The matron unlocked a drawer in her desk, placed the box within, locked it, and then the two sat down to the tea, toast and other edibles which the maid placed upon the table.

“Do these Flint children fret much for their parents?” asked the guest, as she sipped her tea.

“The boy is a cheery little soul, and has never shed a tear; and I do not believe that the girl grieves for them, although she has long spells of crying in some corner away from the other children. Once Diana Strong put her arm around her and asked why she wept, and received a slap in the face, and an angry request to attend to her own affairs.”

“Is Diana the girl who is intending to be a trained nurse?”

“Yes, and if ever one was born to that calling Diana is that one. She is gentle, patient, quiet, watchful, can do with little sleep and is never happier than when in the sick-room of the asylum waiting upon someone that is ailing.”

“When will she begin her training?”

“When she is fourteen. As you know, the children here do nearly all the work of the institution, and in this way, beside getting a good common education, they learn housework, cooking and sewing. If the girls and boys show aptitude for any special trade or occupation, they can leave the asylum at the age of fourteen to learn it; the boys returning here as their home until they are eighteen, and the girls until they are twenty. That little Jerusha will, I am sure, wish to learn dressmaking.”

“Is she fond of sewing?”

“Yes, and I never saw a child so adept with the needle. The sewing teacher says she is a wonder. She is fond of dress and has several beautiful gowns which she says were made over for her by her mother. Why she made three for a growing girl is more than I can understand; it was a waste of beautiful material; one at a time would have been sufficient. They fit her to perfection; but the clothes of the boy, while beautifully made, are ill-fitting and of coarse material.”

“Was Jerusha willing to wear the uniform?”

“No; she refused to put it on and acted so about it that she was not allowed to go out with the other children upon their daily walk. Moreover, some of the older ones have told her that only poor children are here and she is ashamed of being with them, but I earnestly hope she will outgrow the feeling.”

In this she was mistaken. Jerusha did not outgrow it; instead, the thought grew more intolerable with every passing year. She shrank from the sight of visitors, and refused to act as guide through the great building, a duty which most of the orphans considered a privilege and pleasure.

She formed an attachment for no one under the roof, and saw Diana Strong depart for three years’ training in the hospital without one word or sign of regret—Diana who had always stood her friend, when through her violent temper and insubordination she was in difficulty with the matron or her assistants.

Jerusha had inherited the haughty, imperious disposition of her mother, her mother’s father, and her mother’s grandfather, who, owing to an ebullition of temper, was forced to flee from his native country and seek refuge in America.

She, like her maternal ancestors, was impetuous and irritable, resentful and unforgiving; therefore it was a foregone conclusion that in her journey through the world she would be held aloof by those who might have been her friends, and her coldness, want of affection and above all, her pride, kept her aloof from those with whom she was compelled to mingle. “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” was a creed which she did not assimilate.

Horace was as different as if of another race. He had inherited the easy-going nature of his father, who had been the petted and only son in a luxurious home. Therefore the asylum and everything connected with it was, in his opinion, all that was required to keep one happy and contented.

He considered it so superior to the home they had left that he wondered at Jerusha’s dissatisfaction, while she in turn was angry at his want of pride and ambition. The large playground in fair weather and the basement playroom when it stormed were the dearest spots on earth to him. He had plenty of playfellows, something never before enjoyed, for his mother refused emphatically to allow him to play with any children in the poor neighborhoods where they were compelled to live; all he knew of them was what he could see from a window.

Years passed, and Jerusha looked forward with impatience to the time when she could be self-supporting and thus leave the asylum, and on the day that she was fourteen she engaged herself as apprentice to a fashionable modiste.

Her employer was more than pleased with her skill, for even at that early age she could be trusted to work without oversight, and resented any that was not strictly necessary.

She was glad when Horace was at last old enough to leave the asylum to learn the trade of carpenter and locksmith, and they never met during his apprenticeship that she did not urge him to be diligent in learning all that was possible that he, too, might be self-supporting and they could have a home together.

There were two subjects which all who were acquainted with Jerusha found it wise not to touch upon if not wishing to have a scathing retort from her satirical tongue.

One of these subjects was her early home and parentage, and the other the asylum which had fostered her helpless childhood, the home of which she grew more and more ashamed as time passed on. She never spoke of it of her own free will, and dreaded Saturday evening when she must go there to remain until Monday morning.

It was during one of these visits that her sixteenth birthday dawned, and the matron gave her the little ebony work-box.

Jerusha received it without betraying the least surprise and restrained her impatience to open it until she could be alone, and the matron was never rewarded for her care of it by being told what it contained. She did see, however, in the increased haughtiness and arrogance of Jerusha the influence exercised by its contents and wondered again and again what it held, which induced her to keep herself more than ever aloof from her and from every inmate of the asylum.

To Jerusha’s deep chagrin the ebony box held no money or valuables as she had hoped and expected from the moment it was put in her hands. It held neither more nor less than three letters, one of them written by Mrs. Flint to her father, and returned to her enclosed in his reply. The third letter was addressed to Jerusha, and was written by Mrs. Flint, telling her “poor, motherless little daughter, Jerusha,” of her ancestry on both sides of the house.

In this letter Jerusha was instructed to forward the other two letters to her grandfather at the address given, providing the time ever came that she desired to do so.

Dating from the perusal of these epistles, Jerusha refused to remain with the dressmaker, but making of necessity a home of the asylum, she commenced business for herself, finding no difficulty in obtaining patrons, some of them being the best customers of her former employer.

These ladies, appreciating her skill, solicited her oversight of their toilets, and she went from one aristocratic home to another, where her word was law in regard to costumes.

Being recommended by these patrons to suburban friends, she drifted to the village of Dorton, a few miles out of Baltimore.

Thus while her city employers were at the seashore and the mountains, Jerusha was summering with four families in that picturesque part of Maryland, plying her art with untiring fidelity.

Her favorite place of the four was “My Lady’s Manor,” the handsome villa of Mrs. Farnsworth, widow of Joshua Farnsworth. The next best was “Friedenheim,” the country-seat of the Courtneys; then in order came “Fair Meadow,” the fine farm of the Merryman family, and lastly the colonial mansion of Dr. Lattinger, in the village of Dorton.

Jerusha was industrious, capable, prompt and energetic, but she was lacking in enthusiasm in regard to her art. Many persons with but half her ability had become originators of designs for costumes, and in time owned large establishments which gave employment to many helpers.

Jerusha craved no prominence in that line. It was only the force of necessity that made her willing to be self-supporting through the only work she could do well. She was too impatient and irritable to teach her craft to others. She could not direct, nor could she endure to have about her, helpers for whose mistakes she would be responsible. She had felt herself alone all her life and expected to remain so.

During these years Diana Strong had finished her training as a professional nurse and was recommended by the hospital physicians as one of the best.

More than once she had charge of an invalid in a wealthy home where Jerusha happened to be employed; they took their meals at the same table, but the subject of former acquaintance was a tabooed theme with Jerusha, and Diana was too amiable to go counter to her wishes.

Every season that Jerusha went to Dorton she grew more anxious to abide there, and her gaze rested frequently upon a deserted brown frame dwelling of four rooms about a mile out of the village. It had not been tenanted for years, and was fast going to decay, but Jerusha saw that a few dollars spent upon it would convert it into a home, and a home was the greatest longing of her heart.

She mentioned the subject to Horace several times during his apprenticeship, but he evinced no enthusiasm upon the subject. He was well satisfied with Baltimore and his asylum acquaintances there, and saw no need of change.

But, as was the rule where Jerusha was concerned, she had her way, and after Horace was free to go and she had secured employment for him through her patrons at Dorton, they took up their residence in the little brown house.

Jerusha had bargained that they should have it rent free for three years providing they made all necessary repairs. To this the owner agreed, and also to allow them for a nominal rent the large plot of ground back of it for a garden. At all leisure times the saw and hammer of Horace could be heard, paint and lime were not spared, and flowers sprang up at the touch of Jerusha, who at last had a home of her own.

The short distance from it to the railway station, and the few miles of car ride to the city enabled them to have employment at both ends of the line, and if there was ever a moment in Jerusha’s life when she could consider herself contented, it was when after each day’s absence she came in sight of the brown dwelling.

Seasons had come and gone, and Jerusha, who never before had known attachment to person or place, was one evening sitting with Horace on the moon-lighted porch, after a busy day in the city. She was discussing further improvements, the only subject which was of interest to both, but to which Horace that evening lent but an absent-minded attention.

“Jerusha,” he said, as he arose to retire, “I am to be married to-morrow to one who was in the orphan asylum with us. Her name, as you will remember, is now Jennie Strong, and she is the widow of Diana Strong’s brother. I shall bring her here.”

He closed the door and Jerusha was alone with her astonishment and her anger.